


There but for the grace of God go I

by CS_WhiteWolf



Category: Legion (2010), Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Movie Fusion, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-01
Updated: 2010-03-01
Packaged: 2017-10-23 03:55:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/246040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CS_WhiteWolf/pseuds/CS_WhiteWolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU verse, set post Legion but during the apocalypse storyline in Supernatural.<br/>In order to keep the Winchesters safe in their journey to both end the apocalypse and protect the newly born saviour of human kind, Michael convinces Castiel that falling is his only option if he wishes to stay with the Winchesters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There but for the grace of God go I

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published on {[LJ](www.cs_whitewolf.livejournal.com)} March 2010.

The diner is empty save for the three of them; the heat and the silence oppressive around them as they wait. Dean feels a bead of sweat trickling its way down the back of his neck and raises a hand to wipe it away. The gesture draws Castiel’s eyes to him and he presses his lips into a grim imitation of a smile he knows will do nothing to reassure him. The angel sits stiffly upon one of the diner stools, his body bare-chested and sweat slicked as they wait in the heat of the air around them; the overused red leather stool he sits upon creaks as he shifts his weight, turning his gaze away from Dean after a long moment.

Dean swipes a quick tongue over sundried lips, swallows thickly as he follows Castiel’s gaze to where the third of them stands. Michael; un-armoured and winged, his body writhing with ruins and blood as he works the Enochian and blood magics that will ensure the building remains safe for them throughout this. Michael looks up at them then, as if on cue, and the words that fall so seamlessly from his lips send tremors of doubt racing through Dean’s body.

“It is time,” He says, and there is no emotion in the words, nor in the way Michael steps up to Castiel with his hands a bloody mess and a knife the length of Dean’s forearm gripped tightly in the right.

Dean feels a hesitant urge to step forward and knock Michael’s arm away from Castiel, to grab at Castiel and tell the angel that he doesn’t have to do this, not for them; that they don’t deserve this, they’ll never deserve this. But the argument is old and been hashed out more times that Dean can count and always they come back to this, to Castiel’s choosing this. To protect them all.

Michael does not ask his brother if he is sure. He only looks deeply into Castiel’s eyes and reads the faith and devotion that burns within them, within his every essence and fibre of being. He serves God above all else, and if this is what his Father requires of him, then he will gladly give what is asked. Dean bites his lips, thumbs shoved down into the front pockets of his jeans; his fingers feel slick and sticky and he flexes them against the fabric of his pants. He wonders, for the umpteenth time, why God can’t just fix the whole mess himself, why he needs to keep using this planet like some kind of playground instead of just hitting a goddamned reset button or something.

Castiel’s eyes flicker from Michael’s, finding Dean’s, and Dean drops his own to the floor. He was never going to have the kind of faith Castiel seemed to be made of. Not even with the truth of angels and God shown to him in all their un-deniability. He’d thought Castiel finding God would save them, that it would even make him believe.

He believed all right, but more in the fact that the big man upstairs was an unmitigated douchebag, unworthy of the love his angels lavished upon him. It was no wonder half of them went rogue and jumpstarted the whole damned apocalypse. Still, Castiel’s love for him was as pure and untainted even in the face of Dean’s scorn and disbelief and after everything they’d been through together he felt he owed it to the angel to keep his thoughts and opinions to himself. At least for now.

He lifts his head and nods to Castiel. Castiel who dips his head in return before turning to look to Michael.

“I am ready, brother,” he says, his voice as emotionless as Michael’s own but Dean knows there’s bravado in the words. Michael nods once before leaning in to press his lips to Castiel’s in a chaste kiss that nevertheless sets Dean’s heart to beating an even more erratic tempo than it had been before.

Michael pulls away soon enough and steps back. He gestures to Castiel who closes his eyes, breathes once deeply, and lets himself go: there is no lightening enabled shadow-puppetry this time around, no vision of wings spreading themselves out across the back wall of the diner; there are only wings, real grey-black feathered wings stretching themselves out into the space behind Castiel’s back. Dean finds that he has forgotten to breathe, his eyes wide and staring, fingers itching to touch but never daring to reach out. He inhales slowly, eyes roaming over Castiel, over Castiel’s _wings_ and he feel his heart tripping its beats once more.

Michael gestures to him then, urging him to step forward and to take hold of Castiel and he does so without comment; curling one arm about the angel’s neck and urging Castiel to press his face against his shoulder. Castiel does so, his arms making a tight lock around his waist at the same time. Dean can feel the shake to Castiel’s body and he squeezes, trying to tell him without words that everything is going to be okay.

With caution, he wraps his other arm about Castiel’s shoulders, not-quite-daring to touch at his wings but equally unable to tear his eyes from them as they flex gently around him. He feels a pressure building in his throat then as Michael steps in behind Castiel, his fingers carelessly grabbing at the wing where it meets the flesh of Castiel’s back. Dean wants to shout at him to be gentler, more careful, as he feels an outright shudder wrack through Castiel, but he says nothing. He only bites at his tongue as Michael brings down his knife in a savage cut and saws away at the wing and the bone connecting it to the body.

Castiel’s cry, when it comes, is inhuman and keening and it makes Dean’s eyes water, and his teeth ache, and his throat close up as if on his own cry of pain at the sight. He squeezes tighter and Castiel’s fingers dig nail-deep into the flesh of his hips but he doesn’t care. Michael is efficient. He does not hesitate or linger and the whole ordeal is over in a matter of minutes. Castiel is a trembling mess in his arms and when he moves his head away from Dean’s shoulder, Dean hears the clunk of something falling to the floor between them. He does not move to look as Castiel’s fingers spasm against his waist, instead he moves his hands to stroke at the angel’s head, calming and consoling him, as Michael finishes treating his back with stitches and bandages.

When it is over, Dean helps Castiel stand on legs that tremble and shake. On the floor lies a metal collar and Dean swallows back an angry curse at the evidence of God’s love returned on those who worship him with everything that they are.

There is one last thing still to do, and Dean watches as Michael presses his hand, palm-flat, against the heave of Castiel’s chest. Castiel hitches in his breathing and Dean knows the Enochian symbols of protection have been burned into his ribs as once Castiel did for him and his brother both.

“It is done,” Michael says, stepping back.

“Thank you, brother,” Castiel returns, the words sound thick and heavy as they fall from his lips.

Michael hesitates then and Dean tenses, having never seen Michael as anything but sure in everything he did.

“I will see you when this is over, Castiel,” he says and Dean knows that those are not the words the angel was going to say. His gaze is burning as he looks at Michael, meeting the archangel’s eyes for seconds only and seeing a sadness reflected back to him. He disappears then, a shimmer of displaced air and then he is gone without another word.

Dean’s arm grows slick with blood and sweat as he shifts it in his hold around Castiel’s lower back. There are no words shared between them as they stand, together, in the empty diner in the middle of some nowhere desert town. There was nothing to say that hadn’t already been said between them. Castiel shivers against him despite the heat and Dean squeezes him in reassurance before walking him slowly towards the front door and out into the rest of his life.

  
**  
**_fin._  



End file.
